


Less Than Symphonies

by hollowbirds (torturousthings)



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Characters to be added, M/M, Tags to be added, questions will be answered as i go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-08 17:05:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14110023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torturousthings/pseuds/hollowbirds
Summary: It's been almost three years now. Three years since the planet fell into the hands of zombies, three years since Ryan last saw Brendon.He could be dead. Worse, he could be undead.And Ryan will be damned if he doesn't find out.





	1. No Backup Plans

**Author's Note:**

> this is absolutely new territory for me - inspired by a prompt on tumblr, so please bear with me as i figure this out. 
> 
> i do hope you'll enjoy, though!

Jon cocks his gun, hands shaking. His hair’s plastered to his forehead and temples, eyes red from the little sleep we’ve been getting; it’s bad. We stand guard in turns, to make sure no one gets taken. It doesn’t always work, and our numbers are dropping by the day.

 

He and I are out to find food, supplies, anything that can help us survive just a little longer. This place looks like it used to be an indoor car park, except that half of the building has crumbled down, leaving the few vehicles exposed to the elements. It’s only been three years since this all started, but they already look like the remains of some gigantic metal animal. 

 

“They’re close,” Jon says in a whisper. He doesn’t need to tell me. I know. I can tell by the smell, the acrid scent of dead flesh and permanent dirt that follows them everywhere. My gun is heavy in my hand, heavier than yesterday and the day before that. I can’t remember when the last time I actually got enough sleep was. Funny to think I used to hate sleep. 

 

Sleep used to be bad. It used to be nightmares and waking up in a cold sweat, which all seem so futile now. Sleep’s a privilege, and it’s more like blacking out. Disappearing off the face of this planet for a couple of minutes, half an hour if I’m lucky. Forget about how this world’s gone and fucked itself over with its apocalypse, forget about how he’s out there, still, hiding from them. I can’t focus if I worry about him. 

 

Jon looks at me and I notice how sunken his eyes are for the first time,realising that this is the face of a man who’s killed his own wife. Cassie was one of the first to be turned, and I remember her lifeless eyes staring at him as she moved towards him, slowly but surely, feet dragging on the ground. I remember the tears on his face as he pointed the gun toward her, remember the deafening gunshot and the sound of her body hitting the ground, a loud thud followed by Jon’s gun clattering to the floor. We let him cry. On his knees, next to the corpse of the woman he’d loved. He deserved that much. 

 

And then I hear them. The low rumble so characteristic of the dead, tireless and careless, a horde with only one goal: to kill, to turn. To make their own. Selfish bastards. 

 

Jon closes his eyes and mutters something that isn’t a prayer, because none of us believe in anything anymore. It’s just us. Us, and the zombies that are about to round the corner of the building. 

 

An empty trashcan topples over, and suddenly, they’re here. A dozen of them, maybe twenty, and we can’t afford to wait until they’re close enough to take aim. We just shoot. Jon springs to his feet and moves forward while firing, his hands steady now that his brain is back into survival mode. Just like Cassie was one of the first to die, Jon was the first to be able to shoot them without any remorse, as if her death had changed something in him. Like he knows they’re not really human anymore. 

 

It’s not that easy for me yet. Maybe I need to kill a loved one to become cold-blooded like him. I hope I never do. 

 

Jon glances back at me as two zombies crumple to the floor, deader than they used to be, bits of brains splattered on the wall next to them. 

 

“What the fuck are you doing?” He yells, and I tighten my grip on the gun as I cock it and lift it to take aim, but my hands still shake. I fire once at a zombie with stringy blonde hair, missing it by a whole foot. 

 

“Fuck,” I mutter, taking a few steps forward as I shoot again, hitting another one in the head. They fall gracelessly, crumpling to the concrete like dismantled puppets. Adrenaline kicks in, and I take a few more down, watching them fall. There’s no satisfaction in doing this. They were people once, with hopes and dreams and moments where they fucked up. I stare at one zombie’s lidless eyes and try not to think of them in terms of _people_ again. Getting bitten was their biggest fuckup. 

 

But soon, too soon, the bullets run out and I don’t have any more ammo, so I strap the gun back to my hip; it weighs me down but I can’t afford to just throw it away. We don’t have a lot of guns, and without them we’d all be dead. My hand automatically goes to my belt, reaching for the knife I’ve had with me for as long as I can remember. A zombie lunges towards me and I slash at it blindly as its gangly arms reach for me until I hear the thud of its head hitting the ground. Breathe. Breathe. It’s okay. It wasn’t him. 

 

“Ryan!” I hear Jon’s voice screaming out. “Ryan, fucking help me!” He sounds terrified, his voice hoarse with fear and too little water. I look around to locate him, but he’s nowhere to be seen. 

 

“Ryan!” His voice bounces off the walls that still stand, and fear shoots through my veins as I step over the corpses and run in the direction I hope is his. We can’t lose him. We can’t lose Jon. 

 

I round the corner behind which the zombies first appeared and see it instantly. Three zombies with their backs to me, and Jon can only be behind them, backed up against a wall. He can’t escape. I can’t tell if he’s injured or not. Three zombies aren’t difficult to take down, and he would have unless he’s hurt. Fuck. 

 

I rush towards the small group and drive my knife into the throat of the one closest to me, taking its head off in the same movement. The two others turn to me, eyes vacant, oblivious — or careless of the fact that one of their companions just got murdered in front of them. It’s easier to pretend they’re not people when they don’t react like people do. I slash at them again, not looking at Jon because I don’t want to know how bad it is. 

 

But, eventually, I have to. 

 

When the two remaining zombies become two piles of rotting bone and flesh on the parking lot concrete, I force myself to look at him. Jon. My friend. Our unofficial leader, the man who risked his life for us too many times to count. 

 

He has a slash across his chest, his shirt torn and bloody, and a bite mark on his shoulder. I swallow down the nausea that grips me and stare at the bite mark, at the ugly gashes the broken,rotten teeth have left in his flesh. He’s shaking, leaning against the wall. His face is caked with dust and sweat, and he reaches for the gun on his hip, so similar to mine. 

 

“I always keep—” He swallows with difficulty, like the wound was on his throat instead of his chest. “I always keep one bullet.” He offers me the gun, looking straight at me. He takes a deep breath. “Just in case something like this happened.” 

 

My eyes widen as I understand what he means. A bite mark means turning. He wants me to shoot him. I can’t fucking shoot him. 

 

“Jon, I can’t do th—”

 

“Ryan.” Jon looks at me, resolute. “Don’t let me become one of them.” His features are hard even if his eyes speak of weariness too heavy to bear. I can’t tell whether he’s scared, even if it was clear in his voice just moments ago. “If you won’t do it, I will. And I hope you can spare me that.” He offers me the weapon again, and I take it against my will. I can’t shoot him. 

 

Jon closes his eyes and breathes in as I raise the gun to aim at his head. My hands are shaking worse than they did before. I focus on his forehead, on the patch of skin. It’s just skin. Just a blot of colour. 

 

I hear Jon whisper something that sounds like his wife's name. 

 

And I pull the trigger. 


	2. 1,095 And Counting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't really explain why I'm so inspired to write this particular fic, but I guess it's a good thing?

 

I don’t look anybody in the eye as I walk into the dusty storage room that’s our main camp for the week. I can’t: the only thing replaying in my mind is the gunshot followed by Jon’s body spasming briefly before hitting the ground, the sudden silence the whole place was plunged in. He had his eyes closed and I wish I could say he looked like he was sleeping, but he wasn’t. The small bullet hole in the middle of his forehead shattered the entire illusion. I’m pretty sure I threw up. 

 

“Where’s Jon?” is the first question that follows my entrance, and I can feel six pairs of eyes on me, trying to figure out whether it’s safe to come close. Whether _I_ ’m safe. I look at Gabe, knowing he’s the one who’s spoken; he’s the guy who doesn’t know the definition of holding back, and in an apocalyptic world like this one, it’s mostly a good thing. Apart from this precise situation. Don’t break down. Don’t fucking break down. 

 

Gabe was a musician well on his way to success when all of this started, before his parents got turned along with his sister. And that day, he traded his guitar for a gun and never once looked back. I don’t really know how he’s managed not to go crazy right from the start, because I know I would have. Maybe not everyone is as weak as I am. 

 

And maybe that’s why I don’t tell them the truth. 

 

I swallow. “He shot himself.” 

 

The silence that follows those three words is almost unbearable, and I do my best to try and support my lie. “He got bitten,” I say as fast as I can, as if the words are poison that I need to get out of my system. “He didn’t want to turn so he— shot himself.” It feels like there’s a corpse weighing down on my chest, and maybe it’s his. Maybe this is what they mean when they say a guilty conscience is a heavy burden to bear. 

 

I can’t breathe. 

 

“I’m clean,” I add quickly as I shrug my dusty, blood splattered jacket off as best as I can before dropping it on a supply box so they can see my arms and the lack of bite marks on them.

 

“He got bitten?” Ash’s voice breaks and cuts through my bones, shards of glass and guilt I desperately try to shake off. I nod silently and see her lean heavily against a box from the corner of my eye, as if she’s the one who got shot. I try to pretend I didn’t notice. Jon got bitten. That part wasn’t my fault. 

 

“That’s something he’d do,” Andy says, resuming the sharpening of his knife, blade against stone, a sound that I know too well by now. We all sharpen knives or count bullets, make sure each other’s weapons are good enough to use. All we do is survive. “For all our sakes,” he adds. He seems so sure of what he's saying, the white streaks in his ginger beard giving him all the authority he needs to convince us.

 

Well, most of us. 

 

Andy’s always quiet, strong and swift in combat despite his large stature; Andy’s the one we turn to when we can’t keep things to ourselves, when our minds become just a little too much to bear. Andy’s the voice of reason when it’s utter chaos, and that happens more and more often as our ranks diminish. The others are silent. Kenny crosses his arms over his chest, Pete breathes in deeply. He’s trying not to say anything, I can tell. Andy looks around the room, blue eyes eerily steady. He sets his knife down again. “I don’t think Ryan’s lying,” he says. This isn’t guilt I’m willing to bear, but it’s too late to backtrack now. Andy stares at me. He knows. He knows.

 

“You should all get back to whatever you were doing.” He knows, but he’s not going to do anything about it. I’m safe, for now. 

 

Back to sharpening knives. Back to counting bullets. Back to surviving, only Jon’s not here anymore. And that doesn’t change anything, just one less person to help us push through the days. One less person to talk to. 

 

I see Ash quickly wipe her cheeks as she walks back to the place where she’s decided to sleep while we’re here - I want to talk to her, but I don’t want to risk the blame. I don’t know if I can take it. Jon was her mentor, the only person she’d really talk to here. I can tell she acts extra tough, taking more night shifts and volunteering for scavenging hunts more often than any of us, but there’s no way she’s okay with Jon gone. 

 

I pick up my jacket as everyone goes back to their respective spaces and walk back to my own, which consists of a thin blanket draped over a slab of concrete. I already know I won’t be able to sleep any time soon, and the bloodstains on my sleeves don’t do much to help. I don’t even know if it’s his. I spit on my hand and make a weak attempt at rubbing them away, even if I know very well that blood doesn’t wash out that easily. Pete’s knife handle is still stained from his very first kill. He didn’t talk to anyone for three days after that. 

 

A hand claps down on my shoulder and I clench my jaw. This really isn’t the time. “You okay, man?” 

 

“You should ask Jon that,” I snap, the dark splatters on my jacket already imprinted on the inside of my eyelids.

 

I drop the item of clothing and turn around to see Spencer, his hand dropping back to his side, looking concerned in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of old jeans. His hair’s dirty and tangled; none of us has had the occasion to clean ourselves in weeks, much less shower: water is scarce and strictly for drinking. 

 

I exhale. Spencer’s done nothing wrong. In any case, he’s the only one who can help. He’d understand. I know he would. 

 

I wipe my nose on the back of my hand. “Sorry. I’m just— You know. He’s gone.” 

 

“Don’t apologise,” he says softly. “God knows I’d be upset too. It must’ve been fucking harsh to see him go like that.” 

 

I chuckle bitterly and sit down on my makeshift bed, unstrapping the gun from my hip. It provides no relief despite my sore legs and aching back. Spencer sits down next to me and I sigh, letting my head drop into my hands.

 

“You have no idea. He’d already lost so much, Spence. That was the last way I wanted to see him go. He deserved better.” 

 

I left Jon’s gun by his side, the very weapon that killed his wife, and then him. I can barely look at my own. He deserved better. 

 

“We all deserve better than this,” Spencer declares, and I turn my head to look at him. He runs a hand through his hair, which is probably a bad idea considering the state it’s in. “Humanity came this far and now we’re back to surviving. Back to fucking square one. Worse than Neanderthals.” 

 

“We still have hot chocolate.” 

 

Spencer’s eyes flick to me in surprise before lighting up a little, just enough so I know he’s not actually mad. Well, not madder than usual, which is fairly mad. He smiles. 

 

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Zombie apocalypse with hot chocolate beats Neanderthals any day of the week.” 

 

I hum, letting the small smile on my face be. It’s not there very often these days, and the distraction is welcome. 

 

Hot chocolate has been the only ongoing joke among us since we found a dusty, unopened box of Nestle placed on one of the remaining shelves in this room. Pete hailed it as our saviour, and even though none of us has gotten superhuman strength from it yet, it’s a nice, sweet touch in our grimy lives. Even when it’s mixed with cold water. 

 

God, my standards are low. 

 

We fall silent, or at least as silent as we can be with all the hustling and bustling around us. I see Pete and Gabe talking in a corner, and even though I know they’re probably talking about food rations, the guilt gnawing at me insists that _they know, they know,_ _they’ll make you_ leave. I tear my eyes off of them and look at the others. Kenny and Andy, sat next to each other, sharpening their knives in silence. Spencer’s blocking Ash from my view, and that’s probably for the best. There’s nothing I can do for her. Not here, not now. Maybe I can make it up to her in another life. One where we’re not just struggling to survive. 

 

And the worst part is that it’s like Jon was never here at all; there’s no empty space, everything optimised to the maximum in order to be efficient if we need to leave suddenly. It’s like a broken circle, putting itself back together in its perfect round shape even after having been opened. We’re disposable, not irreplaceable. 

 

No one is irreplaceable. Except maybe him. 

 

Spencer sighs and gets on his feet, hands on his hips like he’s about to strike a pose. “I’d suggest we go for a walk, but that’s so, what, three years ago? You know, back when the most deadly thing roaming the Earth was the imminent threat of World War Three or something.”

 

I huff, looking back up at him. “What about Trump?” 

 

Spencer shakes his head. “Nah. That thing was deadly only to itself.” 

 

I can’t help but laugh at that, albeit weakly. When the world was on the brink of collapsing into the current epidemic, our 45th President locked himself in his own basement after announcing publicly that zombies were, in his very words, fake news. The White House fell just hours later, and a nation-wide wave of relief washed over us for just a moment, a brief breath of fresh air before the inevitable fall back into the daily turmoil that our lives were becoming. Running. Hiding. 

 

Being separated, just hours after I’d proposed and he’d said yes. I fucking hate that day. If only I hadn’t gone to get takeout. If only he’d been there with me. If only. So many little things that we don’t think of in the moment and that seem like dumb fucking choices when we look back, things that could’ve been prevented _if only_.

 

I haven’t seen him in three years. Haven’t gotten to see him with a ring on his finger because the proposal was never planned. It’s been three fucking years. 

 

Spencer crouches down in front of me, and I have no choice but to look at him and his blue eyes. Damn his baby blue eyes. Full of concern for me, probably. He has enough to deal with on his own, with the whole apocalypse thing. He knows, too well, even if he’s never met Brendon. 

 

“Is it that again?” 

 

I shake my head and blink, just so my eyes can come back into focus. “No, it’s fine.”

 

His eyes soften and I know what he's about to say. 

 

“You have to let him go, Ry. You have to.” 

 

I don’t answer. Wrap my arms around myself. 

 

I can’t. Even if he might be dead, even if he might not be himself anymore. 

 

I can’t let go. I never could. 


End file.
